Rumors of my demise were only slightly exaggerated...

Sorry I've been away. See, had a little medical emergency. Had discomfort in my lower abdomen. After much medical research (by which I mean looking up every available article on fatal diseases in Web M.D.), I diagnosed myself with stage 4 abdominal cancer and begin putting my affairs in order. Which means I had to come clean with my wife about that girl I kissed in college. (Really, she meant nothing to me... and she had a bit of a mustache. And her name was Fred. And it was really dark in that bar...)

Anywho, I basically moped around for a few days, sobbing uncontrollably every couple of hours until Wifeypooh got sick of the whole thing and made me go see the doctor.

Now, I like my doctor. First of all, he probably goes two and a half bills, and Wifeypooh used to babysit his kids and tells me their cupboards are filled with junk food, so he doesn't really get on your case about being a fat pig. I appreciate that.

But I think he may be losing a bit off his fastball. See, I was in desperate need of morphine, as that's what Web M.D. says you treat a fatal non-operative cancer like mine with, and Dr. StayPuft was having none of this. He actually wanted to examine me!

So after the traditional social finger or two... Or, I swear, the whole hand (Moon River!) (What the heck was he doing up there? Setting up a parlor?)... He sends me off for various tests. All of which come back negative.

Yup. No cancer. Web M.D. let me down. Then Dr. StayPuft tries to sell me this line about how the discomfort I was feeling was probably due to some type of physical activity I had recently done which was using muscles I didn't normally use. Now, as I try to use as few muscles as possible, I was able to pinpoint exactly the root cause of my horrific pain...

Derek Jeter.



Yes. The captain of the dread Yankees: the chief nemesis of our blessed Red Sox. Mr. November himself. He's the cause of all my sorrow.

You see, Jeter endoreses this torture device sold to unsuspecting parents of little leaugers: the Hit-a-Way. You attach it to a pole, throw the ball away for you, it coils around the pole and comes back upon whence you hit it.

The boy got one for his birthday last year and I set it up for him this week, so he could start practicing for baseball season. And I took a few cuts myself.

Well, let me tell you: the muscles one uses to ride the train, drink coffee, type blogs, and hit on pretty women are not the same ones used to swing a baseball bat. And getting exercise to certain here-to-fore unchallenged abdominal muscles... well... Let me just say for the record I would still like the morphine.

Now I'm off to ice my elbow after playing catch with him for ten minutes. It's either that or I've got a wicked case of elbow cancer brewing...